


A Matter of Time

by ivyspinners



Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Families of Choice, Gen, Missing Scene, Teacher-Student Relationship, The Tamora Pierce Experiment Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-20
Updated: 2010-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-29 18:00:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11446113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyspinners/pseuds/ivyspinners
Summary: They'd all had a moment of epiphany when they realized that, great mage or not, there are some things that power simply cannot solve.Five times the Circle gave their teachers heart attacks... including being chased by a barn owner intent on murder.





	1. Of Frostpine and Earthquakes

There was an old saying in Mbau that rang through Frostpine's mind then, Lark's gasp of terror still echoing in wooden rooms.

It said, in the voice of his sister who had whispered it into his ear, "You can run, but a horse runs faster, and earthquakes faster still."

* * *

He had told no one the truth, not in any detail at least.

Magic.

He had not known it then, in the early years of his youth, but that unfathomable substance-tool-gift had defined him ever since birth, or perhaps even before that. His magic had been drawn away in thick ropes to sate another man's greed for power - iron-hot and burning enough to frighten away all competitors for his place. His magic had been a source of income for the family, but to Frostpine, it had always meant so much more.

It had placed food in his belly, yes, as a child. But then, with the death of his village's shaman, the power flowing back meant sickness, fever, heat, and ancient ores and delicately worked jewelry alike singing - or shrieking - beneath his fingertips. Afterwards had come the isolation, from the family who had betrayed his very being for little more than comfort, and from the rest of the world, who treated the priceless heat within his soul as a gilt-covered toy, or a treasure they could own.

He had whiled away the years, waiting - always waiting - although he hadn't realized it until Niklaren Goldeye visited him in his forge, oddly out of place with his angular, ill-defined frame and expensive clothing. "I've found someone," Niko had said, "who will then find you." And something in Frostpine had stirred, that small part of himself that had never really moved past the isolation his extraordinary power represented.

Frostpine had known that Niko did not lie, but he also knew the future was always in motion, so he dared not believe until a small (to him) dark-skinned girl with her solemn face and grieving eyes stumbled across his forge, untrained, but the same special, shining power blazing from deep within.

Daja Kisubo was not his first student, but she was the first in so much else; in power, perception, and the way metal sang when she picked it up, just like they did in his.

Now the earthquake was upon them, unstoppable and terrifying, and this girl who was becoming his daughter had disappeared without a trace.

He did not gasp, as Lark did, the initial tremor past. He remembered the words. Running had been his solution as a boy. Long years had passed since he believed in it, but he was still fast as he raced out of the cottage in an undignified manner, falling to his knees onto the ground and pressing down on his palms.

He could not quite admit his fear, because Frostpine's jokes about his personal perfection were not always jokes, but it clogged his throat, and he swallowed hard - for himself, and for her - as he spread his magic through the ground beneath his hands and feet. It was probably a futile hope, because unless she was actively using her magic, which seemed unlikely, he would have absolutely no sense of her, no clue of where to go. Worse, the anchors of Winding Circle had been filled with so much magic through the centuries it would probably give him false answers.

There was desperation as he searched, that cloud of fear making his heart beat so fast he was certain it would do what the returning of his magic could not - make his heart stop - but even deep in his locating, the hand atop his shoulder, and the quiet warmth, seemed like a draw back to sanity.

"Have you forgotten about spells?" Lark's voice was calm, but her eyes trembled as she spoke.

"No time," muttered Frostpine.

"Then find Niko," she countered. "He will find them faster than you can."

Them. His worry for Daja had almost made him forget the three other young, bright souls with whom she was slowly recovering from being a cast-away. Lark had not.

They were fortunate to arrive at the Hub when they did. There were horses outside the doors, whinnying in terror as they perceived with acute senses what humans could not, as riders talked, or argued, in furious voices beside them. One of the group clung white-faced to the horses, which despite their instinctive urge to run were steadier than he, terrified beyond belief.

_You can run, but a horse runs faster, and earthquakes faster still._

You could run, but you would never be faster than a man with good sense - a horse - or the calling of something overwhelming: disaster, or change, or death.

The suggestion he would arrive far too late sent a chill down his spine, so he blazed his way into the group, to where Niko was arguing with another man.

"Sandry's gone," Lark beat him to the punch to announce. "Daja too, and Briar and Tris. Can you find them?"

Niko broke off immediately, looking all too grateful for the excuse to leave... until the words sank in, at least, and then he was as white as the pale-faced man who stood only with the support of his horse.

The ground beneath Frostpine's feet tingled even though he was shod, and he paused at the sense of familiar magic, but Niko had run back into the Hub - as undignified as Frostpine's earlier performance. He had run, Frostpine would later learn, for the first mirror he could find, and stared into it with a ferocious frown of concentration as he searched, everything else forgotten.

Outside the Hub, Frostpine was blocking out voices as he thrust his magic deeper, searching for that illusive wisp of...

Daja. She was alive.

Copper and fire had been diluted with silk and vines and winds, but she was alive.

He was rushing in to tell them at the same time Niko found him, and their initial attempts to talk over one another terminated abruptly when they realized they both knew.

The plan had been to race to the closest possible place, the Heartfire, to bring them up, but to Frostpine's eternal frustration, they needed permission. Luckily, Lark managed to calm the men down ("They're still alive.") and ordered him to find Rosethorn as she marched grimly to Dedicate Moonstream to demand permission to use magic so close to the anchors.

So much could have gone wrong, he would think, later that day. It might have taken too long to find Rosethorn, or Lark might have needed to be more convincing (though it seemed unlikely), or Niko and Frostpine might not have located the children at all. The earthquake could have overtaken the runners, even if they were not running away from men or from natural disaster.

So he wasn't sure which deity to thank when his magic, twined with Rosethorn's, brought the four young mages back up alive.

He had not been too slow.


	2. Of Niko and Patterns

Power.

It all came back to that, didn't it?

As a small boy, unnaturally focused, as his older sisters thought, on books rather than the normal rough play, he had wished for the power to make them stop bothering him.

As a teenager, enrolled at Lightsbridge University - and firmly in the palm of vanities his sisters had unwittingly taught him - he had wished for the power to make other people turn their heads and whisper.

As a young man, caught between research, teaching, and the unbearable urge to drift on the wind like a seed, he had been disillusioned with what the power-hungry could do, but wishing all the same to do good with the idealistic nature of youth, he had strained his magic to its limits.

It had never been enough.

Niko did not hunger for power, but he often wished he could see more than fragmented pieces of the past, present, and future. It was a sort of curse that made him pace on sleepless nights, too riled by the knowledge that something awful loomed-and that he could see its shadow approaching-but that it could never, ever be enough. Not for him to do something.

Those were the trappings of power, he had realized: not all of those who wanted power had started off genuinely wishing to conquer anything but the inability to _do_ anything.

It was even worse for a seer, who, nevertheless, could not see clear enough.

Power.

Niko had always been able to see it, even though, for a long time, he had never noticed that the most important sorts of magic could not be controlled by words or spells.

Sometimes, it was the ability to make a younger brother play dress dolls, or stop people with a glare, or feeling magic welling up-enough to cause thunderstorms and hail-and being able to rein in the anger so that sparks would die down in thick copper hair. All Niko could do, sometimes, was watch, as though his role were nothing more than an observer- _can't change anything at all, can you?_

Was that the case?

He was a Great Mage. His magic was renowned throughout the Pebbled Seas and beyond, and yet with pirates lining up to attack Winding Circle on foot or on the back of spells, he could do nothing but watch as the burden of defense fell, instead, on Dedicate Rosethorn, and a ten year old boy with extraordinary power burning deep inside. He was a spectator, among a crowd of such people, mages not used to being helpless-Dedicate Crane, Honored Moonstream, Dedicate Skyfire-and yet had finding themselves so all the same.

Others no doubt had ways to observe. Niko needed only to watch, subtly altering his vision so he could see the vibrant green in more detail.

He saw it all.

At first it was strong, but not blazing. Packets of seeds burst overhead and scattered, then dug down and shot up, many shades of green threading through veins and making them explode in growth. For all the magic Niko had seen, it was still awe inspiring to witness this sweeping birth of life, shoots poking tentatively, then more strongly, speckling the tumbling cliff with green.

Soon it wasn't speckling any longer. Plants fought for space, sun, water and air, fiercely competitive, and it was a riot of green even if their roots only survived because of the magic of the boy and Rosethorn feeding them. A third of the ground was still pale green, new growth, while the other two thirds were far darker, and all sorts of spikes rose in thickets; all were actively fighting for space, like twisting green snakes that looked animalistic in life.

And although fire and explosions rained down, and he could see the magic in the two mages' bodies trembling, they were fighting, clinging to green life with all the power available-or so he thought, until he felt Rosethorn's magic... he couldn't explain what he saw, or where she had pulled that power from, but it streamed out in wide arcs, as the vines and brambles stretched in front of his eyes.

She blazed, filling shadows with radiance like nothing but pattern magic could, and there was growth, even as she screamed - as Rosethorn and her boy screamed - with greenery being torn, pirates landing, and the places of their magic torn and injured - the power the two summoned up was incredible. Years of growth collapsed into just breaths, strong magic laid out into patterns: as everything he knew was.

There was a scream, belonging to Rosethorn as she collapsed against her student, desperately injured in a way only he could fully see, tearing out something close to the centre of her being - yet still unwilling to let go.

Power.

He had found it in four young mages who knew nothing of it themselves, hurt in different ways that were nevertheless eerily similar. They had no real home bar this one; no stable family bar this one, and one's too-solemn great-uncle; nothing, or so they thought, to lose if the pirates got on land, so if all signs pointed to this knot in a pattern, how could he be surprised?

Another scream, and power blazed, overwhelming even Rosethorn-far too much for a single mage, never mind a half-trained boy-so strongly everyone else must see it, and those who were not present must sense it all the same. It gushed, like a deep river emptying into the sea, through the boy, into the plants, making them expand and tower overhead, spreading forwards in a rapid sprawl that caught arms and legs of invaders-then rolled over them like ravenous beasts.

This was the work of four children, he realized suddenly, fear rising in a sudden wave, not one, and none of them really understood.

Power.

The children were strong to begin with, had become stronger, and they were pushing into a great working-a well-set pattern magic-and overwhelming the primary mage as they poured everything into it.

He was eighteen and violently ill at Lightsbridge, exhausted from pushing too much into a working.

He was twenty-six and watching his best friend go insane, too tied into the winds and the images it brought to separate reality from dreams.

He was fifty-three and about to watch his four students die.

For all the power they did have, it was not enough: they were about to spin their very souls into the working.

And he could do nothing but watch, even pushing his way through the crowd to get to the boy and his teacher, even trying to lay his hands on Briar to snap him out of doing something that should have been impossible.

The four were children, half-trained, and the other three in the cottage could very well be lying dead on the ground-even as Briar opened his eyes back to reality.

He turned away from the severely injured Rosethorn, the unrepentant boy, fear blazing in his heart, as he left for Discipline, hoping that they'd had power enough not to be...

As he covered the distance, his mind played out the scenes of his fears:

Sandry, slumped across the kitchen table.

Daja, unconscious and not breathing.

Trisana, as pale as death, like she'd been after experimenting with the tides. Trisana, pale blue magic fading as she cried out in pain. Tris, being jerked out of her body and twined into this working, like fluffs of yarn being spun.

Half an hour, it took him to get back. Half an hour when his heart might as well have stopped working, because he had seen the patterns before - why hadn't he seen the future on something as important as this! - before he leaped off his horse and strode into Discipline Cottage.

Relief almost stopped his heart upon seeing them - Daja, Sandry... Trisana - still alive, and then anger overtook it, directed at these four who had inlaid within them a pattern of greatness and the power to reach it, but not a quarter of the sense between them to survive. They could have been killed.

"What is the  _matter_ with you four?"

But a small part of the anger was towards himself: unable to stop them from getting into the situation, and then unable to bring them out.


	3. Of Lark and Mortality

When Lark had been a young girl, still living with her traveling acrobat troupe, her mother had fallen sick just a few days after her lover passed away.

Terrified for this last blood relation, for the troupe was family, but there was always a tiny distance between them, Lark had tried everything their small family could afford, and prayed to any god who would listen. Her mother had become progressively worse, until Lark visited a Living Circle temple and placed a candle on the altar of Yanna Healtouch, goddess of water and healing.

Her mother's fever had abated that night, just a little.

But the next day, when Lark went back to the altar, she noticed that the candle had flickered out at some point in the time between visits - by chance or design - and when she returned to the troupe, her mother was dead.

She lived in the Mire not long after that, too ill with the wheezes to be a tumbler any longer, cut off from the only life she had known and loved There, mortality could not be concealed. Beggar children just like Lark died daily, and she whispered a prayer every day to thank whatever god watched over her for being alive.

She never forgot about that candle. Had the gods blown it out, to show her it was too late, that her mother's time had come and that, like any mortal, her mother must move on? Had someone else blown it out, and drawn away Yanna's protection? Or had it been coincidence?

So she joined Winding Circle when she was old enough to become a novice. There, she had discovered her magic, Rosethorn - Niva, then - and many students, but none had drawn her attention as these four did.

They had come so broken, though not all of them were willing to admit it. Their families were gone, even if in Briar's and Tris's cases, they had been alone for a long time; hidden magic was throbbing to escape; and weariness lurked in tired eyes. Those weren't supposed to be part of a child's life. All were more mature than their year-mates, though sometimes she smiled to apply the term to stubborn heiresses and proud no-longer-Traders.

The night Tris and Sandry came, she lit four extra, small candles on Discipline's altar, praying not for life, but for the vitality and hope that came with it.

They outstripped any and all expectations she had held for them, when they first arrived. The four had become great friends; they were moving on from the deaths; their control over their powers grew stronger every day.

Sandry, and, to a lesser extent at first, her friends, became more her children day after day.

But for all their powers, all the impossible barriers the circle had somehow shattered, there was one thing even these four could not breach, and she would not be foolish enough to let them try.

"If she actually goes, _don't put your magic in her._ Under _any_ circumstances. You can't come back from that. No power can bring you back. Do you hear me?"

Lark left hastily, but despite the urgency, she paused long enough to light a candle for Rosethorn by the altar, another one in the collection to pray for the health of her Rosie. If she had known what would happen, Lark would have lit more - or refused to leave at all.

Mila, she prayed, searching in Summersea, oblivious to the other tragedy unfolding, let us find Moonstream soon.

The hours passed fruitlessly, until a runner approached in the distance, shouting that Niko had found Moonstream; that the Great-Mage had suddenly gone even whiter, and that she was to hurry back to Discipline immediately.

If she had known what awaited her, in Discipline... if she had had any inkling at all...

Mortality.

Lark had known the word for years as friends came and went, but never had she been more terrified than when she stumbled into Rosethorn's room and found the four of them stock-still and barely breathing.

No.

No... no... no... NO!

This wasn't pattern magic. This wasn't being trapped underground. They'd had a chance. This was death, which came relentlessly, inevitably, faster than earthquakes and horses put together.

She was across the room in moments, hands on Daja's shoulders. Lark had been able to feel their magic from across the room, but when her hands touched her daughter... it was overwhelming. She could almost see the pattern of light, blazing from Daja, to Tris, to Sandry, and the thread of her student-friend-daughter's magic disappearing into nowhere, even though Lark could not see magic unaided.

"Let go, you foolish girl!" she shouted into Daja's ear, another hand reaching for Tris, all veneer of calm lost in her desperation. She ached for Sandry, but part of her student was already gone; she could not bring them back. "Don't you realize what you're doing? _Let go of them_!"

Another hand joined her, shaking Daja's shoulder--Niko had arrived, Moonstream on his heels.

"Break your rope. _Daja_ \--"

She felt a surge of power beneath her fingertips, shuddering through her like lightning scorching her veins.

When Daja spoke, she looked at no one: her eyes stared straight ahead, into a distance the three others in the room could not see.

"Stop shaking me," she said dreamily, absently, like all her concentration was focused inwards. "If you break our rope, you will lose us all."

Lark had started shaking the shoulder once more before the words sank in, and then her fingers seemed unable to grip anything, and her knees unable to hold up her weight. She would have collapsed if Niko hadn't helped her up, face stricken as he watched his student and her foster siblings throw away their lives.

"Those... those foolish children..."

No sense whatsoever.

_Mila help them. Shurri Firesword, protect your own._

In the altar tucked in the corner of Discipline's main room, Rosethorn's flame was wavering, even though there was no wind.

Despite the feeling that all strength had drained from her limbs, she left Honored Moonstream and Niko alone in the room, lurching past tables and chairs until she reached the altar.

Four candles.

She could not anchor magic on these, but she could anchor her hopes and dreams, and Lark always known-as a small child watching foster-siblings tumble the way she wanted to some day, as a young girl watching her mother away, as a twenty-something-year-old discovering her magic-that they could mean just as much, or more, to the gods.

The flames were small, but piercingly bright in the gloom-like her four children were, and they were steadier than Rosethorn's.

Lark prayed to Mila of the Grain, to the Green Man, and all the other gods of the circle, not to let the candles flicker out like this, only half-burned-not until every last drop of wax had melted and evaporated into something else.

Those were the worst moments of her life, waiting, watching Daja, Tris, Briar and Sandry stretching themselves thin, not dying, but about to, and unable to do a thing about it. She returned to Rosethorn's room and did nothing except wait, her rabbit-like heartbeat slowing until her insides seemed to knot into despair.

Hope seemed like a dream then, a destination she reached out for but couldn't touch, as this feeling of despair tore at her heart. Neither Moonstream's post by Rosethorn's side, nor the arrival of a white-faced Frostpine, helped. Moonstream was a healer, not a miracle worker, and Frostpine, like Lark and Niko, could do even less.

Morality.

Like threads burning, or bricks crumbling, or candles burning and burning until the last drop of wax faded away.

"They're not dead yet," Honored Moonstream murmured, though her voice held no hope.

Morality-only a miracle could save them.

She held onto that one strand: the Circle had been capable of miracles, before.

She knelt down by Sandry, a hand across the young noble's shoulders, and closed her eyes, and waited; it was up to them.

And finally, who-knows-how-long later, she felt something where she touched Sandry. A shudder, perhaps. A straining of the string of Sandry that her student had thrown in after a dying woman, and a dying boy.

She held her breath.

The feeling that flooded her until she was bursting when Sandry opened her eyes was not relief-it was far too inadequate a word.

The candles burned on, but all Lark had was the furious relief, as she flung her arms around Sandry, holding her tight.

Their time had not yet come--or maybe they had changed it.


	4. Of Rosethorn and Roads

There was very little in life that Rosethorn feared.

She did not fear raiders or pirates, despite the destruction they'd caused. She hated them; loathed them; but she would not fear them.

She did not fear earthquakes or forest fires, even if green life screamed in agony as the forces of nature churned. She prepared for it; was apprehensive when one loomed; but she would not fear natural disasters.

She did not fear epidemics, or humans, or gods...

...or was it that she wouldn't _admit_ to being afraid of them?

When death came for her, she was resigned, and angry because of that, but she had been preparing for this moment since Crane stopped stock-skill, in his greenhouse, and handed her a highly polished mirror showing her thumbprint had changed to white.

She fell.

She hovered, above the land of the-or her-afterlife, or maybe something in between, and rather than places, she saw events instead: past, present, future.

Three years old. Rushing into the gardens to shoo magpies away from grain-erupting in a cloudburst of black feathers. Clutching bean runners to her chest. Older. Vines crawling around raiders' arms and legs, dragging them down. Corn festivals. Dancing with her best friend. Older still: Winding Circle, magic, love. Isas, Lark, Sandry and Daja and Tris... Briar. People who told her, each in their own ways _: you're the reason I'm alive._

This was death, she knew as she landed in a messy garden, and she did not see things the same way. Every blade of grass beneath her bare feet, every twisted vine choking out trees and bushes, every rustle of leaves in the sickening trees, whispered secrets into her ear. Marble and strewn roses were everywhere, before an ancient manor, and it was her job to clean it up - but she saw, in a way that a visitor would not, that there was more to this than just cleaning up a garden.

And with this gardener's challenge in sight, her body gone and emotions undefined, Rosethorn was no longer angry, no longer afraid - not until he showed up, at least.

Rosethorn was dead. It was obvious, but not so much the implications that came with the knowledge.

Rosethorn belonged here, to this world of light and shadows and faintly whispered promises, and she could see it in a way that Briar couldn't.

When something made her turn, and she saw him - she saw not _only_ him, but the roads he would take, the roads he had taken... in effect, a map of his life.

It also meant her heart couldn't stop beating, but if it could, it would have.

_No._

She told the girls to reel him in, one eye on him, one eye on the map of his life-

-the past: a single long road behind him defined by the choices he had made, unchangeable, like all choices had twined together to make a single yarn known as his history.

-the knot where he was now, a twining of ivy and lianas

-the future, as those stems separated again, still crossing in sections, winding in others. The steps he would take in the future until, at the cusp between life and death, where she had paused before falling, he would look back and see only a single path stretching behind him.

He would be a great man, and to die here would stop him - stop the girls, too - from reaching the points where the world was a cherry, and the four mages poised to pluck it from the orchard.

In the sort of serenity that the afterlife bestowed, the peace that was the absolution of death... something stabbed through the sea of calm that held her gently buoyed: anger, perhaps, or pain, but there ought to be no pain, not after the lingering days of fevered mutterings, old memories tempting her mind into the throes of delirium and aches stabbing deep into her muscles and bones.

But Briar. Briar was still _young_. All those paths, she knew, her heart sinking if she could still find it here, all those paths in the map of his life were disappearing--meeting an Empress, perhaps, finding a student, heading into a war.

How could he do this?

How could he do this just for _her_?

Why was she still angry, watching him slice through the threads holding him to life - binding him in a way that magic should have been incapable of - and making his roads vanish, like ice melting into a pool of deep water, eyes fixed on hers?

How could she _fear_ , in this place where fear was a memory of the past, like a blade of grass underfoot, when she had feared nothing in life?

Because she did fear here, she admitted, and maybe she had feared more in life than she would admit. She feared for him; she feared for the girls; she feared for Lark, and Frostpine, and the people she could see he might never meet if he didn't go back.

What was that fear to the fear that kept her here?

Because she saw, written there in his eyes, as he refused to abandon her to her fate: _you're my reason for living_.

Maybe it was that one emotion that transcended death and beyond that finally made anger flare, something enough to make her drop her tools and hold onto him, feeling her heart beat faster after all, as if she had been running and had just stopped, trembles in her fingers quieting as she held onto him.

_"You will regret this for the rest of your life."_

And when she opened her eyes again, pulse throbbing at her throat and ready to kill him for what he'd done-with the anger that rushed through her like a brilliant flame-she had forgotten all that she learned in that other realm, except a vague impression of greatness, of fury, of fear, and a thought.

_'You're the reason I'm alive.'_


	5. In Which The Circle Burn Down A Barn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They'd all had a moment of epiphany when they realized that, great mage or not, there are some things that power simply cannot solve.

There was something restless about Niklaren Goldeye when he finally joined their meeting, but none of the other four great mages called him out on it - they knew, and furthermore, understood the agitation. They'd all had a moment of epiphany when they realized that, great mage or not, there are some things that power simply cannot solve.

"It's not exactly our choice to make," Rosethorn said quietly.

"Our contribution will probably be the deciding factor," he returned. "The Council will listen to us."

"Once they stop arguing among themselves," Frostpine pointed out.

Rosethorn raised a delicate eyebrow. "Never, then."

"It's worse than Lightsbridge," admitted Niko, "and I've always thought about that place with respect rather than fondness."

"Really?" said Rosethorn. "I'VE never thought about it with either."

A cheek leaned against her shoulder as Lark sat down beside her, across from the chair within which Frostpine reclined. "It's not a laughing matter, Rosie."

"I didn't say it was," the other Earth Temple dedicate retorted.

They looked at each other, even Niko, who had stopped pacing, and now leaned like a string-less puppet against Discipline's whitewashed walls.

What was there to say when, in their heart of hearts, a decision had already been made?

"Where are the troublesome brats, anyway?" Rosethorn wondered.

* * *

The troublesome brats were currently occupied elsewhere.

There was a whimper in the darkness as the last person closed the door behind her with a small click, hand trembling against the metal until she let it go. She pulled the key out of the lock.

"Shh..." another voice murmured. "D'you want us to get caught?"

After a moment, when her eyes had adjusted, she saw it was not dark after all; merely as dim as closing her eyes. Her hand touched the pouch clinging to her neck, dropping the key in.

"Here they are," said Tris, digging behind a haystack for the candles she had left there the day before. She straightened with the stumps in her hand and held it out.

Daja lit each candle with a touch of her brass-covered finger, light leaping suddenly to shadow her dark complexion.

The hand left the pouch with a sigh of relief. Sandry took a look around her-the smell, the hay, the animal they had tethered outside-and, noble that she was, promptly grinned and threw herself backwards.

Tris, Briar, Sandry and Daja were in a barn, for a purpose that the teacher would probably disapprove of.

More specifically, the Circle were in a barn right outside Winding Circle, used as a squat for travelers, and they were there to sample the sophisticated pastime known as getting drunk.

"Do you have it?" she asked from her prone position on the haystacks, smiling as Daja seated herself comfortably, and Tris neatly.

Sometimes, Sandry felt as though Tris were the picky noble, and she just a commoner who cared nothing for rank.

The boy's reply was a whisper across the surface of her mind. _Would I forget the most important thing?_

Laughter bubbled like boiling water from within Sandry. She felt Tris scowl.

 _Don't joke about that,_ snapped the weather mage. _We might not get another chance._

Her reluctance, Tris thought, was understandable. It was Sandry who was the most obedient of the trouble-making lot, but it was Sandry who was so bull-headed that plough oxen probably switched paths just to get around her, and when she had decided, she had decided. It had taken just a bit of persuasion ("Don't you want to fit in at Lightsbridge? ... yes, you're going to be interested, or I'll use the lock-picking skills Briar taught - I _knew_ you were interested!" _Beam_ ) to make her leave her books and sneak away outside Winding Circle to sample this most delicate beverage.

The wineskin opened in Briar's hands, and he grinned. He hadn't tried any since getting hold of his magic.

A sip burned down his throat, and he tossed it to Daja, who eyed it for a moment before trying herself.

So what if he was a plant mage, in a barn filled with dried grass and built of wood, seeds beneath the spot on the ground where he lay?

What could possibly go wrong?

* * *

They were still speaking when the noon hour chimed. Frostpine looked up, perplexed. He did not know Tris, Sandry or Briar nearly as well as his fellow teachers, but he had been certain that the former street rat, at least, would rather brave another earthquake than miss a meal.

Understandable, really, considering what had come of that first earthquake.

Fortunately, there had not been many disasters after that, or the mages' magic might have evolved so much that it rained sardines and money grew on trees after all.

"Then we are agreed?" Niko summarized what had already been established. "We recommend that the council refrain from binding their magic."

A sigh escaped from Lark, who had been waiting - much like Frostpine - but for the arrival of a more important guest. "We can only hope that cooler heads prevail." She looked from Rosethorn to Niko. "There might be unforeseen consequences should they suddenly lose their powers."

A contribution came from an unexpected source. "There is a saying in Mbau that I learned from when I was younger. 'You can run, but a horse runs faster, and earthquakes faster still.' They will become great without prompting. I doubt they could outrun fame. We just need to make sure it's for the right reasons."

Was that a flinch from Niko? wondered Lark.

It was.

"I should be going," he said. "I need to speak to Honored Moonstream--"

Lark shot up. "I forgot to mention it, but Honored Moonstream will be eating midday with us." She nodded at Niko. "I expect it's for the same reason."

It was odd how much his sight could miss, Niko mused as he helped Lark set the places to keep his hands occupied. He had missed that the four children would be away for so long; he had missed that Moonstream would be visiting Discipline. He could only hope that he had not missed the consequences should the council take the other route - granting medallions.

He remembered that day, so many years ago, pirates attacking and Briar and his foster-sisters about to pour life into plants.

They had grown so much since then, in power and in mind. He wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or not.

And really... just what were they doing as their teachers discussed something so serious?

Where were they? he wondered as Honored Moonstream arrived.

* * *

Noon light streamed through holes in rafters, pooling onto piled haystacks, but missing dark corners entirely. Parallel beams and peeks of blue sky greeted Briar as he lay there, looking up through the breaks.

The first sip had done nothing all around, and neither had the second.

There'd been a bit of complaining then, as one or another wondered if he'd snatched the wrong stuff, until Briar retorted that they all knew what alcohol smelled like, and if they thought they knew better, why not brave discovery by (1) Gorse, (2) Rosethorn, (3) Niko or (4) any insanely jealous novice who was angry because Tris had been throwing off sparks a little too brightly or Sandry had given him a dressing down, to try nick some herself?

The complaints had stopped after that, and Sandry had announced her awe that he could actually sneak into the kitchens without getting caught by Gorse.

"I know the feeling," Briar had answered. "I was there, and even _I_ couldn't believe I escaped him."

"Getting too big for your breeches, thief-boy," Tris had said absently.

Another round of the wineskin, making Tris feel a little light-headed.

That was when breezes started twisting around the barn.

In the candle-light, Tris could see Briar sit up. "Quiet down there!" he hissed.

Tris rubbed at her temples, reaching for her magic-there it was-just-out-of-

-come on...

_TRIS!_

The collective cry of the other three jerked Tris, making her concentration snap, and what brief hold she had on the breeze had disappeared.

 _At least it's not a cyclone_ , Briar communicated, flopping down again, defeated.

Sandry had been lying motionless, except for her hand, which would occasionally get a hold of the barn door key. She had held it up and giggled at the idea that anyone would be able to get in without being noticed when she held the key.

Now, she flicked it up in the air so it caught candlelight.

"Don't be paranoid," she said lightly. "Besides, a cyclone's still better than spending more time scrying with Niko."

The four paused for a moment of collective horror at the thought of another few hours spent staring into nothing, mainly because they were all so abysmal at it.

Bar Tris, of course, who actually _could_ scry, but Tris had been taking another sip of the wine so she didn't catch the actual words.

"Or working with Crane," was Daja's quiet contribution. "Imagine if he caught us."

There was half a moment's thought this time until the image of an even more draping Crane made them start laughing hysterically.

Up until the moment Sandry realized that the key had gone missing.

Her panic made the others sit up, the tipsy relaxation gone in moments, replaced by frantic digging around the haystack.

"Oh no," moaned Tris. "I knew I shouldn't have..."

"Stolen the key?" supplied Daja, closing her eyes and trying to find the metal of the key, only to come up short, feeling like the key was being pounded into her head. She wasn't drunk - the few sips wouldn't go that far - but she was tipsy enough that magic working was difficult.

They crawled over to Sandry, Briar stopping a moment to remember to grasp a candle to light it up.

A few moments of scrabbling ensued until Sandry noticed a glint of silver, about to topple over on the haystack. She dived for it.

Three guesses about what happened to the candle in her way.

Her skirt caught on fire.

Sandry swore-mildly.

Briar's words were enough to make up for that, as licks of flame from her skirt raced into the dried hay, even as Sandry put out the fire on her skirt.

And when the barn door opened suddenly, Daja and Tris were more than happy to join in.

After all, friends did things together, right?

* * *

"GET BACK HERE!" screeched the caretaker.

Sandry, fumbling with the key, followed the others out of the burning barn.

* * *

While Moonstream spoke with Lark and Niko - the principal teachers - Rosethorn and Frostpine followed Little Bear as he trailed the fours' scents.

"Five copper astrels they're in trouble again," Rosethorn grumbled.

"No bet," said Frostpine cheerfully. "I need my money."

"Those four," said Rosethorn, shaking her head.

They followed Little Bear like a tail as he wound around Winding Circle's many paths, going one way, then doubling back, whining in confusion at cross-roads when the mages' scents had been tainted.

Rosethorn, meanwhile, had been getting very suspicious.

It was a full twenty minutes later that Frostpine felt fire against his magic - coming from outside Winding Circle - not far from the direction Little Bear was taking.

They needed the ten minutes' walk to try and prepare themselves for what could have happened.

"Tris created a cyclone and tore down a barn."

"Too active. Daja made the metal gates start talking."

"Can't hear anything. Sandry decided normal rain was too boring, so spun their magics together to see if they could make it rain tomatoes."

"She doesn't like tomatoes. Briar died and the others brought him back to life."

There was a pause then, as the two teachers regarded each other. Both were aware that, despite the light-hearted atmosphere, the issues surrounding their fledgling students were not at all easily dismissed, and that the last point had been skimming too close to the forbidden truth to be said out loud, in public, or discussed at all. Honored Moonstream had commanded it.

The woman had no doubt been thinking of that very event, when she laid her hands flat against the kitchen table, warded the room, and then begun to discuss Tris, Daja, Sandry and Briar's future prospects.

The teachers had attempted to convey how their students had grown in power and control, as well as maturing enough to understand power. But Moonstream had been equally concerned about the other path - becoming too serious, too devoted, too studious, until magic was everything, and the world lost four that might change it for the better, to studies, or to death, or to prison.

It was a sobering thought.

And that was when Briar ran past Rosethorn with Tris, Daja, and Sandry in tow.

Without a shirt.

Though, as if to make up for it, there was a man with a lit torch chasing after him, screaming bloody murder.

Her heart jumped in her chest as she noticed the smoky dust on his cheeks-then again as she saw that the others were barely better.

" _Boy_!" she screeched, making him jump in earnest and spin to regard her warily.

His jade-green eyes flicked momentarily to the flame, which had been mostly doused.

A sinking feeling enveloped Rosethorn. Hadn't Discipline been holding onto the key to the shack while the caretaker was away?

On no. What had they done this time?

"You'd think they burned down the barn themselves," Frostpine sounded a little less amused than usual.

That was when Rosethorn started in.

It was enough to make her start talking him down - making use of her verbal whipping boy, though he so richly deserved it in this case. What had he been thinking? Why did he smell of alcohol--had he been _drinking_? And the other three! What sort of idiots were they? How could they be so... so... so immature?

The barn owner tried to interrupt but his fury seemed to dim in comparison to Rosethorn's, and, cowed, shrunk behind the four unfortunate students.

How could they act this way, right after the teachers had been trying to convince Moonstream to give them their medallions?

Tris tried to interrupt, but couldn't seem to find the words as Rosethorn's confession sank in.

Didn't they realize, she wanted to ask, what they had done to their teachers over the years? The terror that had whipped through the people who loved them, knowing that four lives were at stake, and the hundreds that hinged on them?

And Sandry--where was the key? She thanked Sandry, sharply, when the noble handed it back meekly-knowing that the trust that had come with it was gone-and was about to start on another round when a voice from behind interrupted her.

"What is going on?" asked Moonstream.

The four 'mature enough to earn medallions' children gulped.

Rosethorn froze. Frostpine decided that, the next time he was on his deathbed, he would expressively ban a retrieval if this was what he returned to. Lark, behind Moonstream, shook her head in resignation.

And Niko, staring from one childish, shell-shocked face to another, frozen in a moment with mishap rather than darkness--though it would be only a matter of time, he knew... that bastard, as Briar called his teacher in his head then, just stood there and _laughed_.

* * *

 

**END**


End file.
